Evelyn
by Prosper-the-XVIII
Summary: The last few scenes of Skyfall (that are actually set AT Skyfall anyway) from M's point of veiw. If you're wondering who Evelyn Cameron is, it's what i think M's real name may be. Contains spoilers.
1. Chapter 1: Blood

**So M was my favourite character in Bond, and I cried my eyes out when she died. But I decided to write a story of what was going through her head during her final...five minutes? Hour? I don't know. This is from about when the Aston Martin gets blown sky-high (that was sad too, i must admit) and when M dies, however long that takes. I might do one on Silva, too. I liked him as well. This is in the first person cuz it's from M's POV. Oh, is it too late to say that this contains spoilers for Skyfall? Meh. This fic has details of what I think M's real name was.**

**N.B: I can't remember exactly what M or Silva say before they die, so that bit's just me making it up as I go along. **

As I force myself to put one foot in front of the other on the way to the chapel, Kincade's arm around my shoulder is some little comfort, but it doesn't distract me from the pain in both my left hip and my hand on the same side. I've got no idea what kind of state they might be in, and I'm not entirely convinced that I actually _want _to know, either. Damn you Silva. For someone who, like myself, doesn't officially exist you've caused one hell of a lot of damage. If you want to kill me, then just do it. Do eleven other people really have to die, and another two undercover NATO agents exposed to get to me? Apparently so. But he's a...cyberterrorist, I think I heard Q calling him. No, Q said something about cyberterrorism and I think I just made the link. I've got absolutely no idea what that might mean, though. Through past experience, I'm guessing that it means blowing stuff up with a computer. Still, all terrorists, cyber or otherwise, are the same. Kill your target and anyone who gets in the way. It's really in his nature.

Thinking about that scumbag, Raoul Silva, has brought another thought to my head. And a pretty terrifying one, at that. What if he kills me? He will, given the opportunity. But what if he's done enough damage to me already? I push a lock of hair out of my face, and I notice with so much shock I'm surprised I don't just keel over and have a heart attack on the spot that I can see right _through _my injured hand. I used to wonder what would happen if you shot a bullet at someone's hand from point blank range. Would it go straight through or just bury somewhere inside it? Well, I can tell you now that it goes straight through, and into whatever's behind it. In this case, whatever was behind it is somewhere about a foot above my left thigh. And I can tell you this, a bullet hole in your hand feels far worse than it sounds. That may explain how I heard and felt bone breaking when I was shot.

Anyway, whet if I _do _die? It's a scary thought. I personally hate the idea. It's one of the major design flaws with human species. I, for one, find it too...permanent, for want of a better word. Well, it happens to everyone at some stage, but when you're potentially...and hour? Five minutes? A day? I don't know how long I have left. But when you're actually preparing yourself to die, then it scares the living daylights out of you. I think back to when I first met Bond. He called me the 'Evil Queen of Numbers' or something like that. What I responded with has become a bit of a recurring joke between us. 'When I want sarcasm, I'll listen to my children.' If I do die, which right now seems pretty realistic, I hope he takes over from me, though a desk job probably isn't really his forte. The last thing I want is that muppet, Mallory, taking over from me. Bond, in particular, needs someone like that as his boss like he needs a hole in the head. I have to say though, sometimes I just feel like giving just that to both Bond and Mallory.

Thinking of Bond brings my thoughts back around to the sarcasm joke. And then back to my kids. I haven't seen them in God knows how long, I must say. It frightens me even more that they have no idea what I do, where I am, _who _I am. To them I am Judith Dench, their mother who they never see due to the fact she's an actress or in some kind of other job I would rather poke my eyes out with sticks than do. That's my identity to all of my immediate family. I could die, and they'd all be told I was killed in a shoot-out at a hotel or something like that. They won't know what really happens. They never will...


	2. Chapter 2: Life Hurts Sometimes

I try to block it out. It scares me too much. I blank my mind and focus on three things. Breathing. Walking. And pain. A lot of pain. Broken bones; that I can handle without flinching. You kind of sign up for it when you come into the Secret Service as a field agent, which I was for some twelve years. It's the most common kind of injury that agents come back from missions with. Bullet wounds: been there, done that and got the scars to prove it. It hurts, I can give you that, but I've survived worse. I _am _surviving worse right now, though for how much longer I don't know. But the crucial thing to do if you've been shot is remove the bullet/pellet/shrapnel or whatever was loaded into the gun as soon as is humanly possible. And I haven't. I've got a lead bullet jammed somewhere in my gut, and I'm beginning to worry that it's hit an artery of some kind of vital organ. It's certainly bleeding enough.

Okay, using pain as a distraction isn't working any more. I just focus on walking. Going forwards; whether to safety or my imminent death by Silva's pistol, I have no idea. I'm still wearing exactly what I had on at the hearing, with the addition of a fawn tartan scarf, and that includes high-heeled boots, so I'm turning my ankle every few steps. I can feel that I'm walking with a pronounced limp. I realism that I must have been doing it unconsciously. I don't focus on the pattern that I move my legs in. I just do it however it feels easiest. My head feels fuzzy, probably from blood loss, and I can't think straight. My good hand is shaking uncontrollably. But I focus on walking forwards. Walking. Walking. Walking...


	3. Chapter 3: I'm Ready

I loose my footing completely, and feel Kincade's strong hands pull me back up under my armpits. I try to say something, but my speech is as slurred as my mind. Breathing is hard too, but I have an excuse. It's my main downfall, as well as not being able to shoot a target more than two inches away from my nose. I am asthmatic, and that gets brought on when I get scared, stressed, whatever. But combine this with my jitteriness, and I think Kincade must think I'm losing my mind or having a stroke. He must think what I think he's thinking, if that makes any sense whatsoever. He speaks to me for the first time since we started walking, or limping, in my case. "You okay, Emma?" He says, rubbing the space in between my shoulder blades with the palm of his hand. I just concentrate on trying to de-stress a little. Looking down, I focus on the rise and fall of my chest. Breathing becomes easier. First a little, then a lot. Then I regain the power of speech. "About as okay as a person with a massive hole in their side can be." I want to say, but I settle on; "Fine. Are we almost there?" He is another who will never know my true identity. When he heard Bond refer to me as M, as in the singular letter, Kincade must've heard it as Em, the shortened form of Emma, and he's been calling me that ever since. Even I don't know who I really am at this stage. My mind is fogging, and so is my vision, slightly.

"Almost," Kincade says, slipping his arm underneath mine and resting his hand on my shoulder, keeping me upright. "What happened to your leg?" Oh, Jesus. He's noticed the fat that I'm limping. In the vague hope that he's not noticed the blood, I say; "I think I sprained my ankle or something a while back. Nothing I can't handle." He seems to take this without question. Thank god.

I grimace when my hand brushes the wound in my side. What was it I said to Bond moments after I was shot? He had asked me if I was hurt, and I have no idea why, but I responded with; 'Only my pride. I never was that good a shot.' He must've known that I wasn't. We both saw the tuft of blonde hair poking up from above the window. We both new deep down that Silva had shot me. But I don't think either of us wanted to believe it. But, for me at that point, the pain hadn't really kicked in and besides, in the thick of things, anything like that, no matter how major, you don't notice to start with. So I may have been under the false impression that I was okay, too.

But now I know for sure that I'm not. And I don't even care by this point. My sense of self preservation is completely down the toilet and I actually _want_ to die. In theory, it would hurt less than this.

But how would I sooner die? Quickly, with a bullet to the head, or slowly, from blood loss? I say the first way. I just want to get it over and done with. I wish I had my gun on me. But I left the one I was given to defend myself in the house, and my automatic hand pistol that I used to keep down the waistband of my skirt in case things got hairy is in the Aston Martin. And I saw that get blown up. So my last hope is Silva. I think, Silva, wherever you are, just come and end it for me. Please...


	4. Chapter 4: This Was Your Life

If he's going to kill me, I'm about to find out . We've reached the chapel. As I stand in the middle of it, time goes by. Five minutes? Five hours? Five _years? _I don't know. And then he finds me.

I hear Silva walk up behind me, and I don't look at him. I stay silent. I have learnt over the years that there's power in silence. As he draws nearer, like a demon, I feel his warm breath on my neck and his hair brushing against the side of my head. He points the gun to my head. Please, just pull the trigger, I tell him in my mind. You know you want to. All this madness can stop, you won't have to kill anyone else if you would just _pull the bloody trigger. _But he doesn't. He tries to degrade me as much as he can; drawing out my death for as long as possible. But I just want to be free now. I'm trying to send him a message via my brain. _I'm ready to die. I want to die. Just get it over with. Please._ But he doesn't get it. And he speaks. "Well, now you know how I felt when you gave me up. Doesn't feel too great, does it? Well, before I blow your brains out, I want to know why you betrayed me. Why?"

I say nothing.

"M, tell me why. I want to know." He looks at me pleadingly. "I thought I was a good agent."

"You know why. I think that the lives and identities of over 1,000 agents was more important than the mere one of yours. I had no choice. If I could've saved you, I would have in a heartbeat. I would have been perfectly happy to trade places with you if I had had the chance. I'm sorry, if that's what you're looking for. Now if you're planning to blow a hole in my head to match the ones you put in my side and hand, then, by all means, get it over with."

Silva takes hold of my injured hand. It burns as if it's on fire. "Did I do that?" He says with mock sarcasm. "Oh, you're hurt." He fondles my hand, and my whole body convulses with a spasm brought on by him digging his fingernail into the wound. If it was by accident or not, I don't know. "So you could well be right. And I don't want to just kill you in cold blood. No, what I intend for _you _to do will help us both in a big way." He takes my good hand, dropping my injured one, which merely flops to my side limply, and forces the gun into it. He angles my arm so that it points the Glock pistol to my temple. I hold it there rigid. And then he puts his head to the other side of mine. "Go on. Free us both with one shot. You know you want to." That voice. I'll never forget it. Silva was one of my best agents. But I had to give him up to the Chinese. I wasn't lying when I said I would have changed places with him in a heartbeat. I close my eyes. My hand is shaking uncontrollably once again. But I'm ready. My trigger finger tightens and I pull back the firing mechanism. _I can do this..._

Silva drops like a stone beside me. I see the hunting knife sticking out of his back, and , in the reflective gleam of the blade, Bond making his way towards me. But it's too much. I am beyond help, I can tell. I swoon just as Bond is within falling distance of me, and collapse into his arms._ Who am I? _I think.

But I know who. Before MI6, anyway. I have no idea where I would be without the Secret Service, but everything I can remember about myself flashes before my eyes. I smile. I want to remember. But still, I'm happy to go.

_Evelyn Cameron, this was your life..._


End file.
